The Way Things Should Have Been
by Rusty Tater Tot
Summary: -rewrite of The Story of Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper (can be found on Rusty Tater Tot's profile page)-
1. Chapter 1

Once, a very long time ago, a smiling woman with big brown eyes and a man with peppered grey hair that was once brown knelt in front of a little girl who stared back at them with vague interest.

The past winter had been the coldest that anyone in Manchester could have remembered. There was no snow, just bitter, raging cold that bit and stung with a passion. The sky was dark and the wind was chilling and seemed to cut right through the flesh of anyone who found himself in its way.

To this particular little girl, none of this mattered. At the moment, nothing mattered except for the shoddily wrapped gift that lay on the floor in front of her. It was no secret to this child that her family wasn't well off. Even at her delicate age, she knew what poor was and she understood that being this way often meant she wouldn't get Christmas presents or dessert or sometimes even any dinner at all.

However, now, on her fifth birthday, she got a present that would change her entire life.

It was hardly anything impressive, but as she pulled the paper off the small box, the child yelped in what could only be taken for joy.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, _thank you!_ " she exclaimed in delight, looking up at her parents with shining eyes. Something seemed to fade and her excitement died down. "Are you sure we can pay for this?"

The adults exchanged glances before the woman bent down and wrapped her daughter in a hug. Moments later her husband had joined in. "I don't want you to worry about that," the lady said to the small girl. The girl sighed with a heaviness that nobody, least of all a five-year-old, should have weighing on their soul. "Yes, Mummy."

The three of them stayed like that for a few seconds before backing away so the child could inspect her gift once more.

It was a small magnifying glass; nothing special, but they knew that to the child it would be everything. "Now you can finally be the little scientist you've got locked away in that mind of yours," the father joked, tapping the brown head that was inclined towards the object the girl clutched in her hands.

"Thank you so much," she said again, quietly this time, but there was no doubt to her parents that she meant it. "Of course, darling," her mother quickly replied.

"We love you very much, Molly," her father said. Molly looked up, her brown eyes meeting those of her mother. She said nothing, but the small smile on her face said it all to her parents.

Unfortunately, happiness like this never lasts. Molly's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Hooper, knew this. Molly knew this, as well. On days like this, however, when icy wind knocked at the shutters and it felt like Death himself was pounding at the door, it was necessary to pretend otherwise.

As she grew older, Molly learned more and more about the ways of the world. She learned what it meant to be picked on, and what alcohol could do to an empty mind. She learned how to live off of her mother's salary of £34 a month. She learned about loneliness and sadness. She learned how to hide scars from prying teachers at school, and why keeping her head down was often the best choice if she didn't want to get involved. She learned about lies and getting herself the help she needed.

Molly also learned about science. She found herself fascinated by the systems of the human's body. By the time she was thirteen years old, Molly had earned herself a scholarship to a private school by her success in biology. However, with her family's poor budget and her father's drinking problem, Molly knew that there was no way she could afford any of the materials for even one semester and neglected to mention the scholarship to her mother.

Despite this setback on her education, Molly made the most of her environment, studying the physical reactions of her peers. This helped improve her performance drastically, and Molly began saving up in the hopes that one day she could attend University and become a doctor or a scientist.

A few years later found Molly halfway through her second semester at the University of Oxbridge, where she was studying to become a biologist. Molly was a quiet girl, who shied away from social interaction. She spent nights and weekends studying as hard as was remotely possible, determined to get through as well as she could so as to not burden her mother more than necessary.

She met him in a cafe on Baker Street. Her roommate was throwing a party that Molly wanted to avoid, and she knew of the little shop from a website she had discovered while browsing the internet. The website said that the cafe was mostly empty because of its lack of publicity, and that anyone who remotely enjoyed the company of people shouldn't go to the little restaurant if they could help it. Unfortunately, Molly seemed to catch it on a busy night - there was a person sitting at a table in the corner. Molly avoided his curious gaze, but she could feel her cheeks exuding heat as he furrowed his brows towards her. A moment later she anxiously stared at the table in front of her; the young man had risen from his chair and was making his way towards her.

She hear the wood creak as the chair across from her was dragged back from the table. She tried to sit as still as she could, knowing he was scanning her. She quickly went over self-defense maneuvers in her mind, but before she had a chance to remember whether she twisted at the elbow or the shoulder the man had cleared his throat.

"We attend school together."

Molly lifted her head briefly and immediately recognised the boy across from her. It wasn't hard to forget the person who sat silently in the back corner as he was profusely praised for some brilliant paper he wrote distinguishing tobacco or something like that. This was Sherlock Holmes

She knew his comment deserved a response, so she curtly nodded at Sherlock. He raised an eyebrow and smirked. "I would have thought you would be attending the 'bash' tonight," he said, leaning forward slightly. Molly must have looked confused, because out of his pocket came a crumpled piece of paper that he slid across the table towards her. Molly reached out her hand and ran it across the white flier.

"TONIGHT," it said, and underneath, her dorm number. Molly stared at it for a moment before sending it back towards Sherlock. "I don't do parties," she mumbled, looking down into her cup of tea. "Neither do I," said Sherlock.

A tiny smile grew on Molly's face. "I'm Molly," she told Sherlock. "I know," he replied immediately. "Molly Hooper. I'm Sherlock." Molly's smile stretched out as she looked up. "I know," she said. Sherlock paused for a moment before a smile appeared on his face, as well.

"Well, Miss Hooper," he said, then paused. Molly could have probed him to finish his sentence, but instead she found herself caught in silence, waiting. "I believe there is only one logical step from here."

"Yes?" Molly heard herself saying. "What's that?"

Another pause, but this one seemed to stretch out for years. "Would you care to study with me?"

The friendship between Miss Hooper and Sherlock was an interesting subject to several people, for more reasons than one. Sherlock was a genius and hated everyone, always impressing people as he insulted them. The fact that Molly had actually formed a positive relationship between him was quite fascinating. He was also a drug addict. Little Molly Hooper, who, even by the time of college, hadn't come out of her shell, was fast friends with a drug addict.

Rather than his habits rubbing off on her, Sherlock being around Molly had quite the opposite effect. Molly had a strong influence on Sherlock. All it took was one glance from her to get him to shut up, smile more, stop slouching, or to "stop being a prick, Sherlock." It took a little more from her to get him to stop with the drugs, but, to her, it was well worth the effort.

Molly couldn't be there for him all the time, though. Her mother grew old and could no longer support herself, and Molly took temporary leave to go and help pack as her mother left her childhood home. Despite her efforts to stay in contact with Sherlock, in the month that she was gone he stopped contacting her. When she finally returned, he was nowhere to be found.

She had gone back into her dorm, only to find a dusty note on the bed that read:

 _My dearest Molly,_

 _Do not try to find me. Hopefully, you will understand the importance of this step in the plan and not try to find me. If you are reading this, then nobody there has noticed my absence in the last month, which is excellent. I have left college. Do not try to find me._

 _Fondest memories, Sherlock Holmes_

She had, of course, disregarded his warning and gone off to find him. It took her a while, but eventually she was able to drag him out of the drug den he had apparently been living at for the past several weeks and get him cleaned up. He had been furious when he regained enough sense to know what was going on. He spoke a few choice words to Molly and then left her alone in the biology classroom, fully intending to never speak to her again. During this time, Molly suffered tremendously.

Years passed. Sherlock and Molly both graduated. Molly began working at St. Barts as a forensic pathologist, and Sherlock started his own business as a consulting detective. Of course, he never spoke to Molly about this, but she followed him in every way short of outright stalking - just to make sure he was alright. Molly's mother died when Molly was twenty-three years old, and all she had left to leave her daughter was a tiny silver magnifying glass. Molly's father had left Mrs. Hooper when Molly had been only seventeen years old, refusing to stay "in this shithole with an old lady and a psycho kid". Molly, now entirely alone, dated around a little bit but never got into a serious relationship. She remained quiet and sad. Sherlock remained a prick. He faked his own suicide, and during that time she got into a more serious relationship and then got engaged. Sherlock came back, and, within two months she was single again. Mixed signals came from every angle, and she stood straight and tall without a word.

She was terribly depressed, but wouldn't have admitted it for anybody's world. Not a person saw through her. Nobody tried to help her, or accept her. Nobody loved her, and nobody would have noticed her if she disappeared. Nobody knew what she had gone through. Nobody except for one person.

And that's where our story begins.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly rubbed her eyes blearily. It was five o'clock in the morning, and she had slept less than four hours the night before. Now she was being called in early to help clear up a 'brutal double murder'. She was not excited by the prospect of looking into it, and not just because she would have to straighten up the bodies and fill out all the forms, but because a brutal double murder meant that Sherlock Holmes would be there.

Molly hadn't spoken to Sherlock since John's wedding. While he usually switched back and forth between 'using-Molly-as-a-servant' to 'ignoring-Molly' quite frequently, for the past while he had been stuck in the latter. She often wondered what went through his head when he ignored her. Was he aware that he was doing it? Molly shook her head tiredly; of course he was. Sherlock was hyper-aware of almosteverything.

Molly finished her coffee and filled her cat Toby's food and water bowl. She sighed at the prospect of missing yet another day at home because of work. "You know," she said to Toby as he rubbed up against her legs, "I'm thinking of retiring and becoming a full-time cat lady."

Once in the mortuary of St. Barts, Molly pulled on some plastic gloves. She already had her lab coat on, and today had pulled her nut-brown hair back into a ponytail. She was inspecting the first body, that of a teenage girl, when she heard voices echoing through the quiet hallways outside.

She paused for a moment, listening. "- not allowed right now, it hasn't been publicised y - Sher - hey!" Molly cracked a smile; Greg Lestrade couldn't keep Sherlock out away, not even if he wanted to - which he didn't. Sherlock would be able to solve this case in minutes flat, and honestly, that's all Greg wanted. Quickly Molly returned to the body, leaving only a hint of a smile on her face. Mere moments later the door swung open and Sherlock rushed in with a dumbstruck Greg behind him.

Molly pretended to be taking notes as the two approached the table in order to look the body over. She sighed - she saw Sherlock almost every day and yet he never ceased to catch her attention with his spectacular jawline, icy blue eyes, and perfectly formed hair. "Molly," he said, and her heart jumped in her chest. "What are the facts so far?"

"A disabled teenager, named Maria Jones, was locked in a completely empty room in a flat on the third floor," Molly spoke softly. Her voice was a bit higher than usual, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice. Molly continued. "The door was barred, and the only other way out was a window. She was sitting in her wheelchair when she was discovered. Maria was covered in blood, completely soaked-there are the clothes she was wearing, over there-but there are no detectable wounds on her body, except a scar on her upper arm. Her wheelchair was completely clean. The window was broken, and we think that she might have-"

"Shut up," said Sherlock. Molly dropped her gaze and continued to inspect the body. Sherlock started speaking quickly. "The glass from the window was on the inside of the room, indicating that the window had been broken from the outside. However, there weren't _any_ fingerprints on any of the shards of glass. Even if it had been broken from the inside, the wheels on the girl's wheelchair had been removed. She couldn't have broken the window." He paused and inspected the scar on Maria's forearm.

"Over ten years old. As I was saying, she couldn't have broken the window. No wounds on her body, but even one shard of glass could have easily cut her, and she was sitting amidst thousands. The person who broke the glass did a hell of a good job cleaning up after himself, which would have been made a lot more difficult if the girl were in there watching him. She wasn't in there when the glass was broken. All of this causes reason to suspect that, when she was put in the room, the girl was already dead or close to it, otherwise, she could have called out the window."

At this point, Sherlock paused and lifted a strand of blood-soaked hair from the girl's head. "This is her blood, but it isn't fresh. Whoever did this had access to her old blood." He turned to Molly and tilted his head. "You said uncle. Who's her uncle?" Molly nodded to the other bag. "There was a note," she said. "A confession." Her voice was much higher now, and Officer Lestrade glanced at her questioningly before asking Sherlock, "You said him - twice. Is it a man?"

Sherlock, obviously annoyed, turned to Lestrade and said, "No, Garren, it was a sparkling hippopotamus that eats rainbows. Yes, of course it's a man. And you call yourself the 'chief inspector' or whatever.." Molly pressed her lips together and unzipped the other bag, revealing a hairy, fat man whose face was a purplish color. "He hanged himself," she told Sherlock. "Left a suicide note admitting that he had killed-" Sherlock took one glance at the man and said, "Murder." He clapped his hands together and said loudly, "Someone murdered him and his niece, tried to make it look like it was a suicide. He left us a message, too. If that were all it was, he wouldn't have broken the window. There's something linking them. Why wasn't the girl with her parents? Why did he choose these particular victims? Where did he get the girl's blood? What did he do with the wheels off her wheelchair? Ah, finally a clever one!"

Sherlock clapped his hands together again and practically danced out of the room, singing Christmas carols under his breath. Greg hurried out after him, leaving Molly alone to clean up the mess and mourn the deaths of of Maria Jones and her uncle.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Author's Note:**_

 _ **The last update was a double-update, so if you haven't read Chapter Two yet I would suggest going back and reading it now. Thanks!**_

 _ **~Rusty Tater Tot**_

Seven hours later, Molly was even more exhausted than she had been waking up that morning.

It was now noon. Despite her physical fatigue, Molly had been working hard all morning. Sherlock had been ignoring her almost the entire time.

Lestrade had gone back to his office around nine, leaving Molly to deal with Sherlock alone. About an hour later, John Watson had arrived, which helped a little. However, no amount of Johns could have helped the chill attitude Molly was receiving from Sherlock.

Molly was quickly pacing towards the exit before he popped up next to her. "Where are you going?" Sherlock asked. Molly sighed internally. "Home," she said out loud, taking larger steps. Sherlock shoved his hands into his coat pockets and quickened his pace to keep up with Molly. "But Molly," he basically whined, "I could _really_ use your help on this case…" He poked out his lower lip a little bit and raised an eyebrow when Molly turned her face away from him. "Hey," he said, catching her chin and redirecting her gaze towards himself. "Please?"

He smiled slightly, staring deeply into Molly's brown eyes. She cast them away from his, thinking quickly. She wanted to go back to her flat and watch Doctor Who with Toby, who she had been dreadfully neglecting. She wanted to go back, but she knew she couldn't resist Sherlock. "Alright," she said slowly, and Sherlock took an automatic step back. "I'll be back in an hour."

"That's too long," Sherlock immediately replied. "If we want to catch the killer, we need to get this done _today_. Be at Baker Street in twenty minutes." With that, he whisked away, leaving Molly to stand in the dull hallway by herself.

Molly barely had time to grab some crisps from the vending machine on the first floor of Barts. Afterwards, she headed straight for Baker Street, and she hated herself for it. She recognised the fact that Sherlock was seducing her into helping him, and she knew she was making a fool of herself whenever she followed along with it so willingly. She also knew that, leftover from their Uni years, she'd still come whenever he called. He knew it, too - and he was using it against her.

Twenty minutes later, Molly found herself standing in the living room of 221B Baker Street. She had stepped into the flat to find Sherlock examining some testing tubes. A blood sample lay in a small vial next to him, and a strange smelling rag on the table beside him. An eyeball lay in a glass nearby. The air smelled strangely like cigarette smoke.

"What do you need me for?" asked Molly after a few seconds of standing there without Sherlock acknowledged. He still said nothing, instead choosing to point silently at the teapot. Molly sighed and started boiling water. A few moments later, John walked into the kitchen. "Molly, how are you doing? Are you - are you making tea?" At Molly's nod he said to his flatmate, "Blimey, Sherlock, invite someone over and let them make you tea? What kind of host are you?"

"I asked her to.." said Sherlock absently. "It's not like she was doing anything else." John shot Molly an apologetic look and took a sip of the tea in the mug she had just handed him. Everyone sat quietly for a moment before John sniffed the air and said, "Is that cigarette smoke?" Sherlock, without looking up, said, "Molly."

John paused for a moment, glanced at Molly, then looked suspiciously at Sherlock. Still watching his friend, he leaned over and sniffed Molly. He rolled his eyes, and leaned over and sniffed Sherlock. "My… Sherlock, we've talked about this!" He looked at Molly with a 'can-you-believe-this-guy' look and continued. "Smoking. Kills. You."

Sherlock said slowly, "Maybe I'll have a little more fun in hell." John seemed quite annoyed, and, after a moment of consideration, said, "What are you going to do down there without us?" Sherlock finally shoved his microscope aside, put his elbows on the table, fingertips together, and loudly replied, "WORK."

Molly cleared her throat and began to speak. "Sherlock," she said, but before she could continue John interrupted. " "Molly, you don't need to do this. Leave it to me. Not that you aren't great, but… It's Sherlock. No offense, but you know he doesn't care what you have to say." Molly stared at him, a million things running through her mind. She could sense Sherlock watching her, so she forced herself to smile. "Of course," she said. "No, I completely understand." John nodded, went over to Sherlock's coat, and pulled the cigarettes out of his pocket. He walked down the hall towards the loo and shut the door behind him.

Molly blinked back tears. She had once had a history with Sherlock, something that closely resembled friendship. That had all changed when Sherlock had abandoned her at University, and now here she was. A stranger in what once might have very well been her own home. "Good…" she started, but she didn't trust herself to finish without breaking down in tears. She smiled thickly and waved a little to Sherlock. She turned and willed herself to wait until she was in the cab to fall apart. As she was walking out, she got the nerve to finish her sentence. "Bye," she said vaguely. As she left, she could feel Sherlock's eyes on her.

Molly was all cried out by the time she got home. She composed a quick email to her boss, saying she was going to take the rest of the day off. She cuddled up on the sofa with Toby and the latest episode of Doctor Who. After it ended, she shifted to a lying down position and closed her eyes. She vividly recalled the day she had saved her best friend's life, and wholeheartedly wished with all that it hadn't been her.

 _ **Author's Note:**_

 _ **This is also a double update, meaning that the next chapter will be up later tonight (most likely by 7:00 p.m. EST).**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's Note:**_

 _ **This is a double-post. If you haven't read Chapter Three yet, I suggest going backwards and doing that now.**_

 **WARNING: POSSIBLE TRIGGER ALERT**

After her difficult day, Molly decided that the best way to relax would be to take a hot bath. She had spent the entire afternoon cleaning her flat and ignoring accusatory texts from her co-workers, all of which claimed that she had left them to deal with all the work while she got a break. She also avoided reading the text from John, which presumably apologised for Sherlock's actions earlier that day.

She slipped into the bathtub and almost immediately fell into a trance-like state. She allowed her mind to blissfully wander, skirting over memories of times she had lost. She made cookies with her mother. She went to the zoo with her parents and her little magnifying glass to study snakes. She played Cluedo with Sherlock. She went to prom - by herself, of course. She went into a drug den and dragged out Sherlock. The last memory made her tense up considerably, so she climbed out of the now-cold bath and wrapped a towel around herself.

She had pushed the memory out of her mind for years, yet she could still remember every tiny detail. Sherlock's rumpled shirt. His uneven breathing. His glassy eyes. She remembered talking to him the whole way home, prattling about unimportant things and praying aloud that he would be alright.

It had happened so fast. She had dragged him out of the old building and driven him back to the university, and, when they got there, he'd said quite happily, "You're too good to me, Molly Hooper." She'd ignored it and tried to get him cleaned up when he leaned over and kissed her full on the mouth. It tasted like cigarettes and pot and who knows what other kinds of drugs, and he wasn't in his right mind, but still… her first kiss. "I love you, Little Molly," he had giggled. That was the turning point for her.

By that time Molly had as good as fallen in love with him, but he seemed to have no memories of that night, and she knew she would never bring it up again. The next day he had approached her to tell her that he was planning on leaving. He was planning on leaving his education and he was planning leaving his friends and he planned to leave her, too.

Here she was now, by herself, all because she was too scared to talk about that day. She was too scared to remind him of how close he had been to death. Too scared to tell him about their not-so-passionate moment. Too scared that he would laugh it off and tell her it had never been real.

Molly didn't realize she was crying until she opened her tightly closed eyes and found herself on the floor. The towel was still wrapped around her, very tightly. Too tightly. She tore it off and cried even harder, looking at her legs and the scars buried so very deeply in them. Those cars had been there for decades, and they had never faded. They where thick and white against her skin, and Molly knew they would be forever. She traced them with a bitter fondness.

She ran her finger over the words 'IM SORRY' that she had etched into her own skin. She remembered all the events that had led up those words. Her father leaving. Her mum dying. Sherlock, telling her goodbye for the last time. She had cried so hard. She hated herself then for not recognizing the pain of the lost souls around her, and she still hated herself now.

Being rejected. Being left in the dust. A friendless orphan. Being abandoned by all she had. She was left alone - alone forever and alone for always. Nobody would ever recognize her as the girl who had once been beautiful, who had once been loved. She didn't have a story that mattered, her life wasn't important.

If Molly disappeared today, who would notice? Nobody, that's who. The police would search for a few days, a week at most, before a few people would be notified to a get-together in her honour. Toby would be sent to a shelter somewhere, her few possessions would be donated somewhere or other, and her flat would be rented out to someone new. John would go to a funeral for her. Greg Lestrade might go. Denise, her partner at work, would. Anderson might. Sherlock? No. He would think it below him, he would say that she wasn't going to care. Molly smiled a little as she almost heard him whining, "She's dead anyway, what does it matter if I was invited to go to her funeral?"

Molly paused for a moment, and removed the thick wooden bracelet from her wrist, revealing the deepest scars of all. She traced their familiar pattern, the thick marks. She remembered the night they had appeared.

It was the week after Sherlock had kissed her. He had left two days earlier, but Molly had been so absorbed in the stress of exams that she didn't really process it until that night. His leaving had broken her heart.

Molly had no idea what to say. She didn't know what she had done to deserve this cruel abandonment. She replayed all her memories of him over and over and over again. Nothing much was certain about Sherlock Holmes, but one thing she knew for sure was that he was an entirely rational, logical human being. It made sense to her that he must have had a reason for leaving her, and, by extension, she must have a reason for leaving herself.

That night, she had cut deeply into her skin with a small dagger he had once bestowed upon her. 'Self-defense,' he had said it was for. 'Not that you need it,' he had said. 'Not with me here.'

Molly once again traced the old scars, and remembered the terror her roommates had conveyed as they drove her to the hospital. 'Keep her head up,' they said. 'Hold her arm up.' And the hushed whispers that they tried to keep from her. 'Did they break up?' 'I don't even think they were together.'

Molly, quickly bleeding out, hadn't paid much attention the rumours that spread as she was rushed to the A&E. The doctors there had done a fine job in stitching her up, but the scars were permanent. Molly was fine with it. She didn't see anything wrong with having Sherlock's name etched into her skin forever.

If Sherlock had heard about the whole thing, he never said a word. Molly tried not to care. Eventually, she graduated and moved on with her life, reliving the scars almost every night. Molly assumed Sherlock had moved on, and he never said otherwise. She tried to as well, but she had more than just the physical marks to deal with.


	5. Chapter 5

Molly woke up feeling sore the next morning. She knew without looking that it was early - too early, but she couldn't fall back asleep. The emotions from the night before were still bubbling inside of her. She peeled her eyes open and glanced towards the clock on her dresser across the room. 0447 hours.

It was Friday. Normally Molly would be at Barts by 0800 hours, but she had a three-day weekend. "I should probably repaper the bathroom," she muttered to herself as she looked over her daily planner, "and I need to find a new brand of cat litter for Toby." She desperately looked for something, _anything_ else to do, but found her mind blank.

"Wow, Molly," she said to herself several hours later. She had finished both things on her list as well as stopping by the store and picking up some milk.

She played with Toby for a little bit, and that evening found her lying sideways on her sofa with the cat purring contentedly as he lay on her legs. Molly didn't want to disturb the cat, so she aimlessly flipped through television channels. Around 2200 hours she fell into hours of restless sleep.

The next day came with nothing to do. It was typical English weather, with a dark sky and chilling winds. Molly stayed inside for the better part of the morning but when, by noon, it hadn't started raining, she sighed. "Sod this," she muttered as she shrugged on her coat and slipped out the door.

"Just my luck," she exclaimed quietly as the sky seemed to break. Heavy, cold drops of water fell from the sky, which cracked and lit up threateningly. Molly darted into the first shop she walked by.

She watched the storm from the doorway, content in her shell of silence until a loud 'crack!' sounded. Spinning around, Molly saw the grimy man sitting in the corner. He was a bit chubby and seemed sleazy and, to her disgust, Molly saw his eyes roam over her body before he grunted a greeting.

The noise had seemingly emitted from a lighter he held in his hand. Molly saw him raise a cigarette to his lips, which parted in a sneer only to reveal a set of very yellow teeth.

"Fag?" he croaked, rising from his seat in the corner. Molly's eyes widened automatically and she took a step back.

"Not for sale," the man said, shaking his head. "Just for you? Our secret?" He pulled the pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. Molly cautiously took one, and the man lit it. She smiled nervously and raised it to her lips.

She choked immediately. It felt like she was breathing through a pesticide-soaked rag, and she found it hard to catch her breath. She'd only smoked once before, and the whole thing always felt… dirty. She could feel the man's eyes on her, so she inhaled deeply once more before hesitantly putting the cigarette back in her mouth.

The man's grin grew, and he stuck out his hand. "Atta girl," he said. "I'm Alan." Molly found a smile somewhere inside of herself as she shook his hand. "Molly," she replied. "Molly Hooper."

"Well, Molly Hooper, you don't seem the type to come to places like this often," Alan said. Molly shook her head. "I was just in the area," she said, her voice dying. She took another swig from the cigarette and was surprised to find that, while she still felt gross, she didn't break into a coughing fit.

Alan noticed, too. "You're getting better at that," he said. "Here, lemme get you a pack or two and lighter of your own." Molly tried to object, but her face felt so burning red and she found she couldn't say anything, so she just put the cigarette back in her mouth.

A moment later Alan handed her a small plastic bag that contained her own cigarettes and lighter. 'Joy,' she thought to herself, 'now how to get rid of these without being rude?'

Alan seemed through with his own cigarette for the time being, and he showed this by putting it out on his arm. Molly observed the flesh sizzling. "Doesn't that hurt?" she winced. She also saw several other small, round marks up his arm.

"Yeah, but pain is good," said Alan. Molly was dragged back to a different time, a time when she had something bigger to live for.

 _"But Molly," Sherlock protested. He was beyond high, he was utterly wasted. Molly took the smoking joint from him. "Sherlock, you're going to hurt yourself… even more," she said, tossing it away from her. Sherlock looked confused. "Yeah, but… but… pain is good!" He seemed delighted with this conclusion, and his beam gave away just how pleased he was. Molly had no response to his claim, so she turned away. "People who care won't let you hurt yourself," she said quietly._

And here she was, many years later, and everything was different. She had nothing but Toby, and Toby wasn't going to stop her.

So Molly smiled up at Alan. "So it is," she said as she pushed the tip of her own cigarette into the soft flesh at the crook of her elbow.


	6. Chapter 6

The next day came around with what seemed to be startling speed. Molly mourned the closing of her weekend by having a day in with Toby. Nothing eventful happened, and several times Molly found herself nearly itching with boredom. For the first time since the breakup, she began wishing Tom was back in her life.

'No, Molly,' she thought. 'It wasn't a healthy relationship, and you made the best possible choice by ending it.' A tiny voice in the back of her head whispered that she was wrong, that she had missed her last chance for happy ever after, but Molly simply lit a cigarette and ignored it.

"This is who I am," she said to Toby. "No man, or lack thereof, defines me. I can live without him."

Toby mewed in response.

The next day, Molly woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed. She'd slept for a full eight hours, woken without a headache, and her body didn't feel like it was about to collapse on her. She had time to make herself scrambled eggs before work, as well as taking a shower and putting on a bit of makeup.

When she reached Bart's at half eight, Molly felt better than she had in the past several months combined. She was clean and healthy and ready to jump into the day's work. She was not prepared, however, for Sherlock.

Sherlock hadn't had the most profitable weekend, and his lack of entertainment left him in a bitter mood. Being Sherlock, he had come to the conclusion that he couldn't feel better until everyone else was upset, as well.

"Y'know, Molly," he began about an hour after she had arrived. "You are a classic example of the inverse ratio between the size of the mouth and the size of the brain." Molly sighed and looked at the half-sandwich resting on a plate next to her. 'Rise above it,' she thought and, taking a deep breath, turned away from both the sandwich and Sherlock.

She was studying a body that had died of seemingly natural causes, but Sherlock was concerned by the obvious lack of blood flow from the long-inactive heart, despite the symptoms of a heart attack. Sherlock was there questioning the only witness, a young man who had conveniently developed a severe case of retrograde amnesia.

"Sherlock," said Molly after running the diagnostics twice in a row. "Nothing comes up. There's no unnatural bacteria in his body." Sherlock, clearly aggravated, ran his hand through his hair and stepped up behind her.

"Incompetent as ever," he hissed in her ear. "Look, there -" Sherlock gestured towards the chart. "Air, in the bloodstream. Typical, except, what do you know? The air shows hints of salt and smoke, yet all signs show that the man never left his bedroom in the middle of downtown London. He's not a smoker, and he doesn't have any history - biological or otherwise - with heart problems. He wasn't prescribed any medication, either. Overall, not an unhealthy man."

Molly stood still as stone, hoping Sherlock's deductions would distract him from the overwhelming beating of her heart.

"And there - a ridiculously large clot in the veins, but when you scan it, nothing comes up. Clearly, that's not just a fluke, nor is it typical, as it's the only such clot in his entire body." Sherlock pointed towards the man's feet. "He didn't move too often, as the arches in his feet are weak, but not moving wouldn't prevent circulation - at least not to the point of blood clots. That's not natural, not by any standards."

Sherlock moved away as suddenly as he had approached, and Molly felt a draft on the back of her neck where his breath no longer tickled her. Sherlock took a few steps away before facing her once more. "You're slipping," he said, and Molly's insides froze. "You need to focus."

Molly quickly moved away from him, but the damage had been done. _"You're slipping,"_ he had said, and Molly felt so disappointed suddenly, so wasted, so old. "I'm going on break," she muttered to Greg before slipping up to the roof.

Molly didn't know how long she sat there, staring towards the skyline as the trail of smoke flickered upwards from her mouth. She felt small and unworthy of such tranquility. Leaning back against the edge of the wall, she exhaled deeply, feeling the smoke rush from her mouth.

She closed her eyes and imagined the edge, imagined the fall that two long years ago she had helped Sherlock fake. She remembered the devastation and emptiness she had felt after he had gone, and she wondered if he would feel anything at all if she were to go the same way.

Thinking about the possibility of her death gave Molly a rush she couldn't explain. Eyes still closed, she grinned to herself as she flicked the cigarette off to the side. She remembered her childhood, her teachers and her parents, the boy next door who always thought she was weird. She remembered growing up and always feeling like something was missing.

Something was still missing from her life, Molly knew it. It was nothing that could be replaced with Toby or with Tom or with a steady job and her own flat. It was nothing Molly could ever know, because it wasn't life, it was her, and now she knew it.

Molly loved her life. She loved waking up with Toby, and she loved studying science at work. She loved her vibrant flat and the houseplant she kept in the corner. She loved every part of it, but she was tired of it. It was meaningless.

Molly was ready to say goodbye.

She considered it for a moment. Did it really need saying? She'd loved on Toby before leaving this morning, before turning off her kitchen lights and shutting the door to her flat behind her. She'd said goodbye like always, but did she want it to be the last goodbye?

Moments later, she knew the answer. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. Toby would go to a shelter and her few belongings would be donated. Her job would be handed off to an intern, and she would be forgotten. It didn't matter how she said goodbye, because it would always be goodbye.

'That was it, then,' she thought to herself. 'I'm done.'

She rose unsteadily to her feet and swiped a hand across her face as she stumbled towards the edge of the roof. Once she reached it, she looked out across the city and deeply inhaled the cool air. "I'm done," she said aloud, and it felt like a load off her chest.

She stood up at the highest point and looked towards the ground, her arms slightly extended from her side as though she was a ballerina dancer.

"I'm done," Molly Hooper said, and she closed her eyes and leaned forward.

 _ **Author's Note:**_

 **I feel like what Lemony Snicket might have felt like while writing** **A Series of Unfortunate Events** **, and technically, none of the unfortunate events have happened yet. Those of you who have read the older version sort of know what's happening, but as you might guess, there are going to be a ton of changes to the plot. I don't want to spoil it, so let's just say… if you hated me last time, you're going to triple hate me now.**

 **Anyway, review if you want to read more (don't leave Molly hanging… or falling), or just let me know what you're thinking through PM.**

 **Thanks so much for reading this, guys!**

 **-Rusty Tater Tot**


	7. Chapter 7

_"I'm done," Molly Hooper said, and she closed her eyes and leaned forward._

It would take Molly Hooper four seconds to hit the ground. In those four seconds, she experienced a range of emotions, from sadness to eagerness to anger, but perhaps the strongest of all was the realisation.

Molly Hooper had four seconds left to live. There wouldn't be a slow-motion moment where her life would flash before her eyes and leave her feeling wistfully reminiscent. She would fall for four short seconds before hitting the ground.

She didn't have time to say a prayer, or to sing a soft song. Four seconds wasn't a lot of time. It was barely enough time to think loving thoughts of dear friends, which Molly couldn't have managed anyway, not with the nausea gripping her stomach.

She didn't have time to think about survival, and in her mind that wasn't really an option. She had made a choice and she would stick with it for the rest of her life, which, coincidentally, was only four seconds.

Her last realisation wasn't as important to her at the moment, but perhaps it might have affected her decision had she thought about it for more than a few minutes while in a moment of high emotion.

St. Bartholomew's Hospital didn't have an A&E. She'd have to be taken to the nearest emergency centre if she wanted to live. She struggled to care about this tiny fact in her last moments, because she knew, no matter her feelings now, she wouldn't live. She would only be survived by her cat, Toby.

She didn't want to die. She just didn't want to live anymore. She wanted to go home and curl up in a ball in her bed for days and days. She wanted to cry and eat ice cream. She wanted to sleep for four hours in the middle of the afternoon, and to wake up to fill Toby's food bowl. She wanted to lay in the bathtub and never have to move. She wanted away from the life that was restricting her. Now it was too late, and Molly would never do any of those things again.

"I can't," Molly Hooper cried, and she hit the ground at full force.


	8. Chapter 8

The only light source in the small room was a lamp on the bedside table, which cast eerie shadows across Molly's pale face. Her eyes, although closed peacefully, seemed sunken and hollow, and her lips had lost all colour. She looked more like a corpse than any dead body had a right to, yet the steady beeping of the heart monitor reassured her anxious visitors of her life.

Were she awake, Molly would have spoken to her callers-Mrs. Hudson and Mary Watson. Sherlock and John were on their way from St. Barts, and later on Greg Lestrade would drop by. Were she awake, Molly would have to look at the ashen faces and red eyes of her friends.

It had been twenty-eight hours since the incident. Afterwards, authorities had been notified and an ambulance had been sent to pick up mangled-but-still-breathing body, which was rushed to the nearest A&E. Molly had been treated immediately and was placed into intensive care. As of noon the next day, visitors were allowed. The first two people to come were the dear landlady who had acted as Molly's mother and the wife of one of Molly's best friends.

If they'd expected to find her weeping or cold and distant or even awake at all, they'd have been sorely disappointed. Molly had not opened her eyes since she'd been brought in. She wasn't responding at all, and, though the doctors who were monitoring her didn't seem concerned, it was a horrific sight for her visitors.

"Did you have any idea-about any of it?"

The two women had long since tuned out the noise of the various medical equipment that surrounded Molly, and the room felt very quiet. Although it was only a whisper, Mrs. Hudson's question made both women jump.

Mary shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. "No," she replied, and her voice broke. She quickly reached up and covered her mouth with her left hand, leaving the right to unconsciously caress her stomach.

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips in sympathy. "There, there, dear," she said as she patted Mary's leg. "It'll be alright." She paused and cast a sideways glance towards Molly's unmoving form. "I'm sure she'll be fine," Mrs. Hudson said again. It was less convincing the second time.

"My God."

John's voice cut through Mary's quiet cries. He stood in the doorway, staring straight at Molly and the machines that were hooked up to her. "My God," he repeated himself.

Mary stood, allowing John to approach and wrap his arms around her. As he moved out of the doorway, Sherlock stepped in.

"I don't believe it," John said. "I don't believe Molly would do something like this."

Silence greeted John's comment, so he continued.

"I mean, she had a few bad days and all but-Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Texting."

Sherlock answered without looking up from his mobile phone. John exhaled and took a step towards him.

"Sherlock," he muttered. "We came here to see Molly."

Sherlock glanced up. "I've seen her. Not much to look at." He paused and tilted his head, ignoring John's glare and the shocked expressions of the women. "Actually," he said, "she looks the same to me. This trip has been a waste of time."

With that, Sherlock turned and left the room, already refocused on his phone. "Well!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, shaking her head. Mary began to cry again.

John put his arm back around his wife's shoulders and turned once again to look at Molly. "You'd better get better soon," he said to the still body. "Or you're not going to be the only one in the hospital."


	9. Chapter 9

Molly had been in the hospital for nine days. Molly had been unresponsive for nine days. Her external injuries were healing quickly. The bruising on her spine had faded, the doctors had performed open reduction and internal fixation surgery on her shattered leg, and the cracking in her skull was sealing itself rapidly.

Despite all this, Molly wasn't showing any real signs of improvement. The doctors worked desperately to relieve the pressure in her head, but they were unsure of the extent of her internal injuries.

At first, John and Mary made it a priority to visit her every day. They would sit with her, John working while Mary read aloud. Even if it didn't make a difference, her two friends felt better, just being there for each other. Of course, time passed and life happened. Nine days turned into two weeks, which turned into three, which turned into four.

Things returned to normal. As much as they hated to admit it, Molly wasn't hugely involved in any of her friends' lives. John earned a promotion at work, Mary was a few short months away from the beginning of her maternity leave, and Sherlock…

Sherlock's life, by his own standards, had only improved since Molly's fall. Anyone that knew him could argue that Sherlock had never been so irritable and sullen, but that didn't mean anything to Sherlock. He worked harder than he had in a long while, taking on two or three cases a day, and solving them at the same pace.

He never spoke a word about Molly since the first day after the accident. John mentioned her several times, and he made sure to update Sherlock after every visit. Sherlock never seemed to take any interest in any of it, but John couldn't exactly blame him. After all, four weeks had gone by and there never were any developments.

Until the doctor called and asked John to come in.

The first thing John noticed when he walked through the door was that the ventilator was gone. Doctor Ramsey stood by Molly's bed holding a clipboard and a pen. The doctor looked up as John entered.

"John," she said. "Thanks for coming."

"Yeah, of course," John said, looking between the doctor and Molly. "Is everything okay?"

Doctor Ramsey sighed.

"Not exactly, unfortunately. Physically, Molly is doing wonderfully. She's still got a long way to go, but she's made tremendous progress. She's healing much more quickly than we'd anticipated."

"Oh," John said. "That's… Okay."

There was a moment of silence before John added, "I get the feeling there's a bit more to it than that, though. Right?"

The doctor smiled tiredly. "Smart as a whip, John. Molly is in what is called a persistent vegetative state. Do you know what that means?"

John nodded and ran his hand through his thinning hair.

"Yeah," he said. "But not specifics or anything."

"Basically," Doctor Ramsey began, "she's stabilised. Her brain functions are normal. She has, however, lost cognition. Her lower brain stem is healthy and fully functioning, but she has no perception of any external stimuli. Typically, PVS patients have varying degrees of consciousness, but Molly is at the very, very bottom of that scale."

The doctor paused.

"She is considered to be in a persistent vegetative state, but she still measures at a seven on the Glasgow Coma Scale. 50% of VGS patients fully recover within the first month. As you know, we're already past that point with Molly. Generally, patients have the best odds of recovery during the first year. After that, the likelihood of recovery decreases significantly."

There was another moment of silence, and Doctor Ramsey spoke once more.

"Also… There's a chance that there's severe permanent brain damage. There's certainly some minor damage, but there's no telling how extensive it is until… or _if_ … she wakes up. Something you may want to consider at this point is how her life and your lives would be affected if that were the case. It's probably time to talk about how long you're willing to keep her here like this.

"I'm sorry. I know this is difficult to hear."

" _Idiot._ "

John looked up from where his face was buried in his hands at the same moment Sherlock walked through the door.

"Sher-what?"

"Shut up, John," Sherlock said. He turned towards the doctor. " _You_ are an idiot."

Doctor Ramsey looked taken aback. "I-excuse me?"

"You are an IDIOT."

Sherlock was angry and seemed to be getting angrier every moment. He stormed towards the doctor and stopped a foot short of Molly's bed, pausing for a moment to glance down at the paler-than-ever woman lying on it.

"Were you dropped on the head as a child?" he addressed the doctor. "Either you're legitimately an idiot or just a terrible, terrible liar." Sherlock stopped dramatically, allowing his words to sink in.

…

"What?" John asked. "Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

Sherlock clapped his hands together. "So glad you asked, John! Take a look at this doctor here, Doctor Raymond or whatever."

"I'm a woman," Doctor Ramsey objected.

"Shut up, Edmund," Sherlock continued. "Look at Doctor Edward. She's just fed you all this information about persistent vegetative state patients, but she's left out quite a bit. As you might've guessed, PVS patients are actually quite independent - just look at Molly. They've already removed her ventilator, as well as a number of other machines. PVS patients can breathe on their own, they can maintain a regular sleep-wake cycle, they have regular circulation, they can even react to external stimuli if they've recovered to that point.

"Clearly, Doctor Landon would have you believe that Molly is just as needy, if not more so, than a coma patient that measures lower than a fifteen on the GCS. She isn't. The doctor talks about the difficult conversation you have to have, inferring that 'pulling the plug' is even a possibility in the given situation, but it isn't. What plug could be pulled? She's only connected to a heart monitor, for God's sake, and that clearly shows that her heart rate has stabilised!

"Molly can even," here Sherlock stopped speaking and moved forward, reaching out and brushing the back of Molly's hand. Her finger twitched.

"- Hear us," Sherlock finished.

Molly's finger twitched again.

"Oh, my God," John said, and he moved towards the bed. Doctor Ramsey took a step back.

"I'm - er, I'm sorry," she said. "I think there's been some mix up." She looked Sherlock in the eye. "I wasn't _inferring_ anything, and I certainly didn't purposely exclude information. I was simply being honest with John, someone who has proved time and time again over the past four weeks that _he_ actually cares about my patient."

Sherlock exhaled loudly and ruffled up his hair. "You're an idiot," he stated simply. "You're an idiot, and 'your patient' is going to die under your care. I'm taking over from here."

"You can't do that!" Doctor Ramsey insisted.

John opened his mouth to speak in her defense, but at that exact moment Greg Lestrade walked in with two other officers.

"Sula Ramsey," Lestrade said. "You're under arrest for the theft, abuse, and illegal distribution of prescription medication."

John blinked in shock. Sherlock twisted around slightly and winked at him.

"Wha-" Doctor Ramsey backed against the wall and looked around her. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah, right," Lestrade replied. "Medication's been going missing for months. You've tested clean on every drug test, you have no symptoms, you have a spotless record, with no demerits over the past fourteen years you've worked here, and yet, you've been caught."

Doctor Ramsey started to object, but Lestrade cut her off. "The gig's up, Sula," he said. "Three people have died because of you. You have to come with us."

There was silence for a moment, and then the doctor darted towards the door. The officers leapt towards her and pinned her to the floor in what felt like slow motion to John. Moments later, her hands were cuffed behind her back and she was being led out of the building.

"Wow," John said. " _Wow._ "

"Yup," Sherlock replied, popping the _p_. "Figured that one out over coffee today."

"Wow," John said once more.

Maybe it was that the loud beeps were sounding twice as fast as they had been moments before, or maybe it was Sherlock's look of concern, but suddenly John was acutely aware of how fast Molly's heart was beating.

He looked towards her, and then towards the machine that monitored the rate of her heart, and then towards Sherlock, who was smiling.

"See?" Sherlock said. "She knows exactly what's going on."

John smiled then, too, and he moved forward and took Molly's hand. "You alright in there?" he whispered. He felt her finger brush against his palm, and her lips twitched into what John thought was a smile. "You're going to be alright," he said. "We're all here for you."

"John!"

Sherlock's call came from the hallway. "Come on, we're on a schedule! We have a lot to do in a limited amount of time, especially once we move Molly to Baker Street!"

"Move Molly to Baker Street?" John asked no one. He looked down at his friend, lying motionless on her bed for the fourth week in a row. "I guess…"

"John!"

"Coming," John called back to his best friend. He took one more look at Molly and squeezed her hand before he dropped it and ran out into the hallway after Sherlock.


End file.
